Paving Highways in South America
Three days after the civil registration campaign wrapped up, I stared at the report in my hands and genuinely wondered whether my eyes were broken.
"Did the population... duplicate itself or something?"
Before the campaign, the registered population had sat at around 6.5 million. I'd figured we'd pick up another half million to a million once it was over.
The final number blew every estimate I'd made clean out of the water.
"Nine point two million...? Where the hell did more than 2.7 million people come from?"
Even granting that the rural population had thrown themselves into registration with real enthusiasm, the figure still made no sense.
"More than half of the rural population had never been registered at all."
"That was supposed to be about a million, wasn't it?"
"Unregistered Outlaws who'd been working slash-and-burn plots in the mountains came pouring out in droves."
"Hold on."
Why are there so many of these off-grid people?
"How many are we talking?"
"Over 1.7 million."
"That can't be right."
"Here's how it happened..."
Isabella's explanation went like this.
In the colonial era, San Marcos's entire economic model had been built on the most brutally labor-intensive industries imaginable: vast plantation farms and mining operations. In an age when imperialism ran rampant, nobody was about to pay a proper wage, so the indigenous people of San Marcos melted into the mountains and the jungle and put down roots there.
And now, generations later, a fertility rate of 5.3 — well beyond the official national figure of 4.0 — had swollen their numbers beyond all recognition. It was enough to shift the country's entire demographic makeup.
After centuries of Spanish and then Portuguese colonial rule, most of San Marcos's citizens were mestizos, mixed European and Indigenous blood. The rural population, though, had largely kept their Indigenous ancestry intact. Some regions had even grown their own dialects.
"...So why did they all come flooding out like that?"
"They didn't seem particularly interested in education. Things stayed quiet all the way through the boarding-school program."
"And then?"
"The moment we announced the land-lease policy, they came pouring down the mountains. I hear even the people who'd been hiding deep in the Central Mountain Range came down to the last man."
"Huh."
The demographic breakdown was even more astonishing.
It was the kind of population structure that aging developed nations would drool over.
The problem was—
"...I think we might be in serious trouble."
San Marcos simply did not have the weight class to support a population of that size.
Rural population: 2.7 million. Strip out the elderly and the children, and you were left with 1.75 million working-age adults. We'd drawn up the land-lease program expecting maybe 600,000. That was 1.15 million extra people.
"Perhaps we should postpone the land-lease program? Completing the reclamation first and distributing plots gradually would be the most realistic approach, I believe."
"No. We can't do that. They registered because they heard they were getting land. Tell them it'll take years and they'll vanish straight back into the mountains."
Once they lost faith in the government, hauling them back later would cost far more than it was worth.
"We have to grab this while we can."
"But it's physically impossible. The farm reclamation project alone will take five years... Don't tell me you intend to hand out the land first and tell them to clear it themselves?"
"No. If we do that, they'll just go back to living the way they always have, in hiding."
Why would anyone volunteer for that kind of misery? Hell, I wouldn't either.
In the end, I decided to play the card I'd been holding in reserve.
"Let's give them jobs."
"Jobs... sir?"
A million seven hundred fifty thousand able-bodied workers had just landed on the books. Freshly registered, soon-to-be taxpayers, every last one of them.
"They have to earn money before we can collect taxes from them, don't they?"
"That's true, but there are no such jobs. The farms are already at capacity, and the oil refinery and the chemical plants are still under construction."
"Then we make them."
I slapped my palm against the map of San Marcos hanging on the wall.
"Let's punch some roads through."
"I beg your pardon? Roads?"
"A highway. From the eastern tip of San Marcos all the way to the west, plus arterial routes connecting every strategic hub in between. The country's aorta."
"A... a highway, Your Excellency?"
"That's right."
Isabella's face tightened with unease.
"But Your Excellency, there are only fifty thousand registered vehicles in the entire country. And most of those are in Libertad. Building roads when there are no cars could easily become a waste of the budget."
"You've got the order backwards."
I shook my head, firm.
"It's not that we have no roads because we have no cars. We have no cars because we have no roads."
"...?"
Isabella's eyes went round at this miracle of logic.
"It costs about a thousand dollars to ship ten tons of coffee beans from a farm to Port Libertad. And the time? Five hundred kilometers takes two days — three, if you're unlucky. Every bit of that is chewing away at our national competitiveness."
"But other countries bear transportation costs as well."
"Other countries don't spend that kind of money. Take my home country, Korea — shipping ten tons of cargo four hundred kilometers costs about three hundred dollars. And six hours is plenty."
"......"
"Without roads, resources can't move. And when resources don't circulate, incomes stay low."
I traced my finger from hub to hub across the map.
"A massive highway construction project will create jobs in the doing. Once people start earning, they'll buy cars on their own. Once logistics open up, the factories will start turning. And more than anything..."
Seoul flickered through my mind as I spoke.
"Roads are essential for balanced national development. I will not sit here and watch Libertad bloat itself into a monster while the rest of the country withers."
"Hmm... You certainly have a point, Your Excellency. We build the highway, provide the jobs, and finish the reclamation in the meantime."
"Besides, road construction and land clearing use more or less the same equipment. Do both at once and we save on costs too."
Isabella nodded.
"Given that this is a specialized field, I'll look for a reliable contractor."
"No need to look."
I grinned.
"I already know the finest expert in the business."
It was time to summon the living incarnation of the highway itself.
That night.
"Hey, Minsik?"
"No way — Your Excellency! I was just about to call you!"
"......"
Is this guy out of his mind?
"Cut the crap. How've you been?"
"Me? Living large, thanks to you. Got promoted, eating well, sleeping well. But man, the news over there is insane. You struck oil and held a summit with Drumpf?"
"Just thrashing around trying to make a living, that's all."
Hearing an old friend's voice after so long, I felt the tension bleed out of my shoulders.
"So, about Chief of Staff Isabella. She seeing anyone yet?"
"Keep talking nonsense and I'm hanging up."
"Don't work her into the ground, alright? I might just file a complaint with the labor board on her behalf."
"I'm the Acting President, you know."
"Ah. Right. Forgot about that."
We lobbed a few more jokes back and forth before I got to the point.
"Anyway, how's the Chairman these days? He hasn't been in touch at all."
The line went quiet for a beat.
"Ah, that... His health hasn't been great, actually."
"His health?"
"Yeah. He's getting on, you know. His energy's dropped off a lot, so he's been in and out of the hospital. Barely comes into the office anymore."
"Ah."
Well. The man was past eighty. The miracle was that he'd still been working at all. Getting sick at that age wasn't the strange part.
So that's why he hadn't been in touch.
I clicked my tongue, a bitter taste in my mouth.
"Nothing serious, though?"
"Thankfully, no major illness. The doctor said it's just the natural course of things."
"I see... Alright. Tell him I asked after him, would you? And that I'll call once he's feeling better."
"Will do, I'll make sure he hears it. So what did you need him for, anyway?"
"Nothing much. I was just hoping to pick his brain about a highway."
"A highway?"
"Yeah. Figured I'd try laying one down in San Marcos. But if the Chairman's unwell, I'm not about to dump this on him. Just keep an eye on things and introduce me to someone on the working level when you get a chance."
"Got it. I'll ask my uncle on the construction side."
I hung up feeling anything but settled.
His ideology was a little off, sure — but the man was as close to a benefactor as San Marcos had ever had.
"It's not like I can fly over for a hospital visit... I'll send him some red ginseng later, at least."
I went to bed turning that over in my head.
Two days later.
"Heh heh. You've been well, I trust, Your Excellency?"
"I — I heard you were ill...?"
Chairman Chung appeared looking perfectly, infuriatingly fine. And he hadn't come alone.
Beside him stood another old man of similar vintage, radiating a presence that was anything but ordinary. If Chairman Chung gave off the air of a field commander who still smelled of earth, this one looked like a cold-eyed strategist who had survived every war the world had thrown at him.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fit as a fiddle. The moment I heard Your Excellency needed me, I pulled out the IV and came running."
I stepped forward at once to shake his hand, and Chairman Chung clicked his tongue as he made the introduction.
"This is... tch. He heard the rumor we were building a highway and threw such a fit about being included that I had to bring him along."
"A pleasure. Yang Jeong-mo, of International Steel."
"...!"
The name hit me so hard I doubted my own ears.
"Good lord...!"
I couldn't get my mouth to close. And for good reason — the man was a living legend of Korean industry.
He had run afoul of the military regime and watched his entire group get dismantled in midair, then clawed his way back up from nothing under the civilian government and built one of Korea's foremost steel companies with his bare hands. His people-first management philosophy was so famous that any list of the world's great executives had his name on it, without fail.
"I — it's an honor to meet you. Eugene Choi."
"Heh heh. I've heard a great deal about you."
The greetings had barely landed before Chairman Chung cut in, blunt as a brick.
"Ahem. No need to look so delighted. This fellow came here to hawk rebar for the highway project. Treat him like a peddler and you'll be fine."
"You really do have a vulgar way of putting things. That a man like you leads a company — I feel sorry for his employees. Wouldn't you agree?"
"What?!"
Chairman Yang pushed his glasses up with a genteel little shove and parried the blow with perfect composure. Then he turned to me, smiling smoothly.
"International Steel can supply the rebar for your highway at ten percent below the international market price. And I stake my name on the quality — top grade, every bar."
"You can go that low?"
I blinked, and Chairman Chung snorted.
"Hmph! Don't fall for it. That's leftover stock from a Chinese government contract that fell through. He's just dumping distressed inventory. He already collected the penalty in full, so he still turns a handsome profit even at ten percent off."
I looked at Chairman Yang. He nodded, utterly unfazed, as if Chung had just read the weather.
"That's correct. The Chinese provincial government that placed the order paid the penalty and cancelled the contract."
"See? What did I tell you!"
"But the important thing, surely, is that I am offering at a ten percent discount a product that would fetch full price if I simply sat on it. A win-win. This — this is the art of management."
Chairman Yang's easy smile turned Chairman Chung's face a spectacular shade of red.
"Hah. As if a man who spent his whole life sucking up to power would know the first thing about rational management."
"What... what did you just say? Sucking up?"
Chairman Chung planted his cane and surged to his feet.
"Hey! You done talking? You think today's Korea would even exist without that era?"
"Let's get the facts straight. Today's Korea was built with the blood and sweat of the people. You, senior, just sucked that blood."
"What? Sucked blood? You — you! You commie bastard!"
"What? Commie? Always with the 'commie' the second you've got nothing left to say! And this from a man who was the junta's lapdog!"
"There's nothing you won't say to your senior!"
"If you want to be treated like a senior, try acting like one!"
And then the two old men had each other by the collar.
"Let go of me! I'm going to teach this bastard some manners today!"
"Go ahead! Hit me! I dare you!"
"Nngh! Die already!"
"Urgh! You crazy old man!"
Right in the middle of the presidential office, the chairmen who moved the Republic of Korea tangled together and started rolling across the floor. Chairman Chung's cane went flying. Chairman Yang's wig came clean off. It was, in every sense of the word, a no-holds-barred brawl between two grandmasters.
I stared at the spectacle, dumbfounded.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Why the hell are these two throwing down in someone else's office?